A Single Candle
by SableUnstable
Summary: George spends his birthday the same way he does every year. April Fools won't be his and Fred's day ever again. One-shot, GW/HG.


**A Single Candle**

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership on Harry Potter and everything officially related to it.

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**A/N - For the twins' birthday. Very short and no way _near_ as celebratory as originally intended. Still, happy birthday Fred and George.**

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The flame burned brightly, casting deep shadows across the empty room. He stood at the table with the muggle lighter beside him, staring at the colours dancing to the tune of the breeze blowing through the cracked window; yellow and orange and black in the centre, wavering in the evening air.

Thirty-seven. He was thirty-seven. The flame jumped and spun, and tired blue eyes watched with an impassive expression, dark smudges under the bottom lids marking how much he hated that particular day. He was thirty-seven and he was alone. Had been for seventeen years, and though he'd gotten used to it after a decade or so, it didn't make him feel any less uncomfortable.

Or incomplete.

A soft, faltering breath broke the silence and he pulled the chair back, sitting down with his ankles crossed and his hands resting on his thighs. The flame continued to flutter and he continued to stare, his mind sluggish and surprisingly crisp at the same time, his movements careful and precise. His chest ached, but that was okay, because that was normal. He could handle normal.

He didn't think he could handle being only one half for the rest of his life. The ache swelled, turning searingly sharp-edged.

"George."

The opening door threw a blanket of light into the sparsely lit room, and George slowly turned his head to watch his wife invade his solitude. Hermione stopped at the opposite side of the kitchen table, her eyes moving from him to the single burning candle in the family-sized Red Velvet cake sitting in front of him. Her gaze finally settled on him, and without saying a word, she walked around the table and climbed into his lap, curling up against his chest.

"You're not alone."

His hands fisted on his thighs and then his arms snapped up to band tightly around the soft body cuddled against him, his face dipping to burrow into wild brown curls. He clutched her to him, eyes clenched shut and teeth bared.

"It hurts."

"I know. I'm here. You're not alone."

His body shook and Hermione's breath blew steadily across the hollow of his throat as he battled the screaming beast that was shredding his heart into bloody pieces. Just like every other year, he had little success. He could deal with the sorrow, the loneliness, the pain on normal days, had been doing it for years, but that day was the day he'd begun his life with his twin brother forever by his side. And Fred wasn't there. His birthday, Fred's birthday, was upon him, and he was facing it without his twin.

The emptiness was eating him alive. A desperate little choking sound erupted from his throat.

"It's all right. You're not alone. I love you. You're not alone. I love you. You'll never be alone."

She murmured it over and over, her fingers scrambling for his shirt to push it up and graze over his midriff, scratching back and forth, her lips pressing against his throat in tiny kisses. And as always, in a gradual glide that always took him by surprise, the soothing quiet of her voice, her nails against his stomach, her lips against his throat, the familiar, comforting scent of her hair, it all gently pulled him from the pit he was sinking into. The pit he hardly visited anymore, unless it was on that one day. He didn't mourn so heavily on the day he'd died. Life had always been what the twins had reveled.

With her help, the hurt dulled and faded just a little, making it possible to think. Making it possible to acknowledge that while his twin wasn't here, he wasn't really alone.

He had his family. He had his children. He had his wife.

Hermione.

"I love you too," he whispered. Her words died, her fingers stilled against his skin, and she leant back, searching his eyes. A soft smile grew as she reached up to cup his cheek.

"Hey. Welcome back."

"I'm sorry."

His wife frowned, tapping his face gently. "None of that. No one blames you, love. You don't need to explain and you don't need to apologize."

George shook his head and gathered her closer, turning her so that they were both looking at the burning candle. There was silence for a while.

"Red Velvet, huh?"

He nodded, swallowing heavily. "His favourite."

"Hmm. We should share it."

His chest tightened again, the loss pulsing, and then released in a long puff of air, his muscles finally at ease. His head dropped to press a kiss to her curls. A sigh escaped Hermione with the touch of his lips and one of her hands found his, squeezing in comfort, while the other dug something out of her pocket. She leant forward.

Two, three, four, five candles stood in the cake. A flick of the lighter and they were lit. A ghost of a smile tugged the corner of George's mouth up.

"I'm not alone."

"Got that right," his wife agreed, tone cheerful. The barely there smile spread slightly and he tilted her chin back so he could kiss her properly, the hurt dulling a little more under the feel of her mouth moving with his. He pulled back and Hermione's nod was satisfied when she popped off his lap and reached for his hand.

"Let's go share this cake, yeah?"

It took some time for George to answer. "All right," he finally replied, voice still hoarse with emotion, unfolding himself from the chair bit by bit. It felt like he hadn't moved in fifty years. He pulled in a short, shuddering breath, and with her hand clasped firmly is his, Hermione drew her wand and froze the candle flames, so that they didn't burn down or go out. She picked up the cake and slowly led him towards the door.

George stopped in the doorway and turned back to the abandoned kitchen of the flat he still kept but only visited once a year, his wife stopping with him. A glance around the room had old memories, the distant echo of his laughter, playing through his mind, and the loss flared up in his chest again, making it hard to breathe. Hermione murmured something and squeezed his hand, lifting it to kiss his palm. As if she knew.

She probably did.

"Happy birthday, Forge," he whispered, taking comfort in Hermione's steady presence, pressing his lips together and turning resolutely to follow the witch he'd moved past just existing with, the witch carrying the birthday cake with its five frozen but still burning candles. "See you next year."


End file.
